Slow Hand Luke. Debbi Rawlins

      “Yeah.”

      “Darlin’, I’m not sleeping in the bunkhouse. I’m sleeping here with you.”

      “With me?” Her eyebrows arched in amusement. “You think so?”

      He tried not to smile. He didn’t mean it like it sounded. He just wanted to stay in the house. “I’m cheap labor. Don’t I deserve a nice soft bed?”

      She leaned a hip against the counter and folded her arms across her chest. “I’m sure Chester can accommodate you.”

      “Come on now, darlin’.”

      Her expression tightened. “Don’t take this wrong, okay, but I—”

      “I know what you’re gonna say, and I don’t blame you for mistrusting me. A girl can’t be too careful and all that, but if I’d wanted to—”

      “I’m not worried that you’re going to attack me,” Annie said, cutting him off. “I simply don’t like you calling me darlin’.”

      “Why?”

      She looked at him as if he’d crawled out from under a rock. “It’s demeaning.”

      He thought for a moment. Hell, nowadays you couldn’t call them ma’am or darlin’ without getting your head bitten off. “Well, I figured I knew what that word meant, but now I’m not so sure. Just trying to be friendly is all.” He gave her his winning smile, she only rolled her eyes. “Maybe you should be more worried about letting a strange man into the house alone with you.”

      She laughed. “Trust me. I can take care of myself,” she said, watching him closely. Too closely for his liking. “I’m a cop. A New York police officer. Brooklyn to be exact.”

      That took the wind out of him. “A cop?”

      She nodded.

      “A cop,” he repeated, mostly to himself, hoping this was a really bad joke.

      “Yep. Sergeant Annie Corrigan.”

       Damn.

      

      “Y OU FIND THAT no-good son of a bitch yet?”

      Sheriff Jethro Wilcox held the cell phone away from his ear. Ernest Seabrook was loud enough when he wasn’t pissed off and, for the past two days, the man had been madder than a rutting buck without a doe.

      “Not yet, Mr. Seabrook, but I figure he’ll show up at his granddaddy’s old ranch soon enough.”

      “Soon enough?” Seabrook hollered. “Soon enough? Yesterday couldn’t have been goddamn soon enough. You understanding me, Jethro?”

      “Yes, sir.” No use pointing out that was merely a figure of speech. The old man was as hardheaded as he was obnoxious, but he paid mighty well and it wouldn’t serve any purpose to piss him off further.

      “You get me my million bucks, you hear? And you bring me that son of a bitch.”

      No kidding. Why else would he be sitting out here by the McCall ranch, sweating like a pig in the heat and humidity near a mosquito-infested pond? “Yes, sir.” One of the critters buzzed near his ear. He swatted, missed and cursed.

      “What did you say to me, boy?” Seabrook’s voice came out in an angry wheeze and then he started coughing. More than likely caused by the stinky cigars he was always smoking.

      Wilcox smiled. “Nothing, Mr. Seabrook. Just getting eaten alive by these friggin’ mosquitoes.”

      “Well, the sooner you find Luke McCall, the sooner you can go home.” Seabrook severed the connection.

      Wilcox flipped his cell closed and slipped it into the breast pocket of his uniform shirt. He could go home any time he damn well pleased. Technically he didn’t work for Seabrook, but he’d gotten himself knee-deep in debt to the bastard, which, around these parts, pretty much meant Seabrook owned his ass.

      What he couldn’t figure out was why Joanne stayed with that nasty piece of lard. Yeah, he had money, but she was a mighty fine looking woman and half his age. She could find another sugar daddy over in Dallas. A woman like that would be taken care of for a long time if she was so inclined.

      Another mosquito buzzed close to his ear. He swatted at it, slapping the back of his sunburned neck too hard. “Son of a bitch.” He stared through the trees toward the highway. Couldn’t see a damn thing. Twenty minutes ago he’d seen headlights, but it must have been a wrong turn. Besides, the lights were high and wide like a truck’s, not like McCall’s flashy red Corvette.

      Jethro stretched out his legs and slid lower in the seat so that the back of his head hit the headrest. If McCall didn’t show up tonight or early tomorrow morning, Jethro’s guess was that the guy had hopped a plane in Dallas. If Jethro had stolen a million dollars, that’s what he would’ve done. Get the hell out of Dodge, pronto. The only reason he was sitting in this crummy place at all was on account of Seabrook’s stubborn belief that McCall wouldn’t leave the state. Or the county, for that matter.

      The whole thing just didn’t add up. Seabrook was president of the stockmen’s association that put up rodeo prize money. Luke McCall was one of the top bull riders in the country. Over his career, he’d earned over a million dollars and, as long in the tooth as that ole boy was getting, he was still riding. More than likely he would’ve taken a nice chunk of that prize money at next month’s rodeo. So why steal the mil? And what had he been doing at Seabrook’s ranch anyway?

      There was no love lost between those two. Not since the Fourth of July two years ago, when Seabrook spooked Luke’s horse real bad right before the rodeo started. Some folks thought the old man had done it on purpose. If Luke had hurt himself he wouldn’t have ridden that big mean Samson. Staying on that Brahma bull for a record time ended up winning Luke a fifty-thousand-dollar purse.

      Still, that missing money didn’t mean anything to Seabrook. Only a portion of it was his contribution to the stockmen’s association and it wasn’t out of the goodness of their hearts they put up the prize money. It was all promotion. They got back large returns that made blowhards like Seabrook millionaires.

      Maybe Luke grabbed the cash to get even with Seabrook. Although that didn’t seem like McCall’s style. Or maybe he just wanted to make Seabrook sweat for a while. The old man was obviously embarrassed. That’s why he wanted the whole mess kept under wraps.

      Jethro adjusted his hat to partially cover his eyes but still allow him to see if any headlights appeared. Seabrook had offered to square his debt if he brought Luke back and, no matter what their beef, that’s exactly what Jethro aimed to do.

      

      W ELL, HE DIDN’ T RUN, but he sure looked as if he wanted to. Annie poured herself a second glass of juice. Her mouth had gotten so dry it felt as if her tongue had swollen. “You want another one?”

      Luke shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go get a beer out of my cooler.”

      “Knock yourself out.” She’d bet next month’s rent that he’d get in his truck and she’d never see him again. The horrified look on his face when she told him she was a cop took first place as far as reactions went.

      “Want one?”

      “Sure.” She waited until he got to the back door and said, “You forgot your hat.”

      He turned and stared at it for a moment, and then his eyes met hers and his mouth curved up on one side. “I didn’t forget it.”

      She watched him leave, and then she moved to the window to watch him walk to his truck. Yeah, he made a great picture with his long legs and snug-fitting jeans. Broad shoulders, for which she was a hopeless sucker, that tapered to a narrow waist made him look like he should be in a commercial.

      She was equally interested in the way he walked. His long leisurely strides told her more about the